


Your King's Command

by daphnerunning



Series: What is Wrought Between Us [14]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: BDSM, Cousin Incest, M/M, Riding Crops, Throne Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-11
Updated: 2020-12-11
Packaged: 2021-03-11 04:27:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,794
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28009203
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daphnerunning/pseuds/daphnerunning
Summary: After the Dagor Bragollach, Fingon understands what Maedhros wanted to give up, all those years ago at the Council of the Noldor on the shores of Lake Mithrim. Perhaps finally, healing can come from true understanding.
Relationships: Fingon | Findekáno/Maedhros | Maitimo
Series: What is Wrought Between Us [14]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2019358
Comments: 16
Kudos: 76





	Your King's Command

For the first time, Fingon thought he understood a fraction, just a fraction, of what Maedhros always hesitated to ask him for.

The crown was heavy. Fingon knew it, just as he knew it could not be so, for it was wrought of fine craftsmanship, and hardly touched the skin of his forehead, sitting instead on the fall of his hair. Yet it was heavy with another weight, and he couldn't shake the feeling that even after having it resized and perfectly measured, it was never meant to fit _his_ head, after all.

"My King."

Fingon's head snapped up, and he schooled his face to careful neutrality, before seeing exactly who it was that kneeled before his throne. He looked around, puzzled; how long had he been lost in a dream, of a time before the fires came? How long had he been musing, longing to remove just a fraction of the weight that now pressed upon him?

For the hall was empty, save the two of them. The banners of his house (ought he to change them? Was this no longer the Palace of the House of Fingolfin? It felt wrong to strike them down and create something new, he'd be so lucky if he could do as well as his father) hung silver and blue from the walls, a stark contrast to the elf in red kneeling before him.

And Fingon understood.

"Are we alone?" he asked, voice as calm as he could manage.

Maedhros looked up, concern and grief heavy in his gaze, and nodded. "Quite alone. Your soldiers will hold the doors against any. Mine are with them, to bolster their ranks."

Fingon nodded, and drew in a shaky breath. "Then..." He had no words. He only twitched a hand, helpless, hoping Maedhros would understand.

Who else would?

No one else living had worn that crown, however briefly, but the two of them in this room. For the first time, Fingon thought he truly understood the way Maedhros yearned to call him _King_ , to lay his head in his lap and let someone soothe away his burdens.

Maedhros looked up at him, and Fingon knew, too, the guilt that he carried, over wanting that relief, over wanting it to be someone else who wore the crown. He knew, whether from their bond or long, long familiarity, that Maedhros's next words would be self-ruining-- _I will take it from you, even now, even with the scars I bear, even with the oath I swore, if you cannot hold it._

"Then come up here," Fingon said, his voice very steady now. "And serve your King."

Maedhros sucked in a breath. They had often begun so. It had never been true before, never _really_ been a King and his subject, merely two of Fingolfin's mighty lords. "What would my King have of me?"

And Fingon decided, quite suddenly, that he did not want to spend the night mourning his father.

There had been lamentation, in the weeks since the Dagor Bragollach. There had been memorials. There had been a pilgrimage with Thorondor the Great to see the cairn. There had been weighty matters and desperate councils and pledges of allegiance, grief shared with his brother through letters delivered by birds, moments of weeping in Maedhros's arms, and looming always, the question of _what next, what next, what next._ The Siege had been broken. Their greatest defender had fallen. The long peace was over, and ahead lay years of toil and strife and grief.

Fingon did _not_ want to spend tonight in such a way.

Maedhros's hand came up, gently brushing against his knee. "Finno?" he asked, his voice soft.

If Fingon let that softness in, he would break. Not now. Not right now. He could not be soft tonight, or he would spend it weeping yet again, and he was raw, sick of it.

His head snapped up, and he said bluntly, "My mood is dark."

Maedhros's eyes widened slightly, but he nodded, remaining on one knee. "All right."

"You have often asked of me...more than I have given you." Fingon brushed one small braid behind his ear, watching his husband. There was a tiny tremor of need that went through him--yes, even now, Maedhros rose to him, even in the depths of his feeling. Good. "I do not know if this is the right thing for me to do tonight," he confessed. "But it is the first time I have felt myself capable of it. Would you have it?"

"Yes." Maedhros spoke as if he'd swallowed too quickly, the word rough, forced out.

"You need not. I--"

"Yes."

"You _must_ stop me, if...I do not know what form this may take."

Maedhros met his eyes. "Let me help."

Slowly, Fingon nodded. There was something charged building between them, something he did not recognize from any but the rarest of their couplings, something that felt quick and sharp and smelled of lightning. "Then tell me. When your fell mood is upon you, what is it you wish of your King, that you would not tell your husband?"

Heat crept into Maedhros's cheeks. He bowed his head, red hair spilling about his shoulders, a sure sign that they had been in public far too long, with Fingon restraining himself from braiding his hair at every opportunity. "I...would have my King take his pleasure from me," Maedhros said quietly, his eyes cast down. "I have told you before. Take your pleasure from me, with no concern for my comfort."

"But there is more."

Something flickered on Maedhros's face. "Yes."

"You've told me some dark fancies before. Do you still hunger for them?"

Maedhros inhaled slowly, and raised his eyes to meet Fingon's. "Every day."

Fingon nodded. Maedhros understood he was reticent to offer. He understood Maedhros was reticent to ask. Both came from love, and were understood. That did not mean certain things could not change. "Strip."

He expected Maedhros to hesitate, to say they should make for Fingon's bed. He was startled to see not a second of such, not a heartbeat. Maedhros bowed his head as if he had been collared, and bared himself to the waist, discarding his cloak, tunic, and shirt. "May I stand to remove my boots and breeches?" he asked, and his voice was a low, husky thing that went directly to Fingon's cock.

"You may." Fingon didn't stutter. It was a near thing.

"Thank you, Your Majesty." Maedhros moved smoothly, for all Fingon knew his knee must be hurting, and stood, making quick work of boots and breeches even with one hand, until he stood entirely bare in the throne room.

Fingon's heart thundered in his chest. That he should live to see this, that his hands should live to touch this, that Maedhros would be so utterly unaffected--

But of course, he wasn't unaffected. Fingon could see that plainly. Maedhros's cock stood straight up among soft red hairs, and he made no attempt to cover it. His body was magnificent. There was scarring, yes, but it was still the beautifully-formed body of a tall, powerful warrior, heavy with muscle and supple from long training. Fingon swallowed, and ordered, "Present your wrists. I will bind you."

Wordlessly, Maedhros did, offering his wrists, his eyes again cast low.

There was plenty to choose from, on the ridiculous number of fripperies that decorated his person now. Fingon selected a length of silver-blue cord, and watched Maedhros's eyes trace it as he wound it around and around, pulling far more tightly than usual. "If I make it loose, you might pull away."

"Yes." Maedhros's voice was a whisper.

If he had not been so obviously affected, Fingon would have stopped. It wasn't the sort of game he was drawn to naturally. But seeing Maedhros on the verge of spilling because of a few stray words and a single action, standing bare in his throne room? That was the sort of thing he was _very_ much drawn to indeed. "What shall I do first?" he mused, tying off the cord, letting Maedhros's warm hand fall from his. "Should I have you over the throne? It _is_ my right, as your King."

"Of course it is your right." Maedhros's eyes burned. "My King has only to command me."

Dare he? Dare he go further? Maedhros wanted him to, Fingon knew. For once, he felt reckless like this, as if he did not _want_ to be always careful, always afraid to hurt. "And if I fetched a horsewhip from my guards?" he asked, almost casually, and was rewarded with a sudden sharp inhale, and Maedhros's hand flexing in his restraints, those powerful shoulders suddenly cording with a tension Fingon usually only saw when he was already near completion.

Maedhros licked his lips, an almost feral hunger in his next words. "That is your right, as my King. Am I being punished for an indiscretion, Your Majesty? Or merely because it brings you pleasure?"

Fingon's cock throbbed in his breeches. "Does it matter?"

Slowly, wordlessly, as if in a daze, Maedhros shook his head.

"Good. Stay still until I tell you that you may move."

"Yes, Your Majesty."

Fingon's boots clicked against the stone floor as he strode down the hall. He did not turn to look over his shoulder at Maedhros. If he did, he thought he would not be able to bear taking even one step away.

At one of the entrances, he fitted himself to the door, opening it just enough for his head to peek out, and found one of his guards and Maedhros's together, two soldiers in red and blue whispering to each other. He cleared his throat, and they jumped, both of them snapping back to attention. Fingon looked the men up and down--no drovers here, no trainers, of course, damn--and improvised. "Give me your riding crop."

To their credit, both soldiers immediately offered one without stopping to ask why. They looked identical, but Fingon took the one from Maedhros's soldier, then warned, "No one comes in until I come out."

On their affirmative, he closed the door again, and tried not to look at Maedhros as he returned to the throne. Maedhros had not moved an inch, holding perfectly still, and Fingon reveled in the sight. He was clearly aching for contact, his freckled skin prickling all over with gooseflesh, his cock slowly darkening as he remained untouched.

"Good," Fingon murmured, and drew the crop through his hands, watching Maedhros's chest rise and fall more quickly in anticipation. "Bend over my throne."

Maedhros obeyed immediately, looking for direction, taking it when Fingon nodded, and bent in front of it at the waist, resting his weight on his elbows on the seat of the throne.

"I took this from your soldier," Fingon said, as casually as he could manage. His emotions did a very complicated three-step, over and over. First, he felt he must hesitate, for he could never hurt his beloved and did not wish to. Second, he saw how affected Maedhros was, pleading for more with every fiber of his being. Third, he was forced to admit to himself that he _was_ enjoying this, very much, and wanted to continue. First, second, third. First--oops, skipped to third, third again, third again--

"Do you think he knows what I'm going to do with it?" he continued, and reached out, trailing the crop up the back of Maedhros's thigh. "Do you think your soldiers know you let the High King have his way with you whenever he likes--that the Lord of Himring rides for weeks to taste my cock?"

The shiver that passed through Maedhros was visible. "I...don't know, Your Majesty."

"A proper Lord shouldn't enjoy something like this," Fingon informed him, and drew back the crop, letting it fly with a _smack_ against Maedhros's back.

The noise that came from Maedhros's lips was something wild, a bitten-off keening sound that made Fingon feel like everything he was wearing was suddenly far too tight. Well he remembered hiding in a cottage on the edge of Formenos, breathing similar words into his husband's ear, when they thought the worst thing that could happen was for them to be parted.

Then again, Fingon _still_ believed that the worst that could happen would be to be parted from Maedhros.

He watched, and felt along their bond, and felt only a carnal lust return, so he struck again, and again, watching the skin redden and bruise with the force of his strikes. "It's one thing to turn to a mare in heat when you take my cock," he breathed between strokes, watching Maedhros jump and twitch at each one. "But to act like that when I'm striping you..."

Maedhros let out a groan, and shifted, standing with his legs farther apart, his back arching. Fingon's eyes widened at the obvious invitation there--and more, when he could see that Maedhros was so close his cock was dripping onto the seat of his throne.

 _You've wanted this for so long_ , he thought, with a shadow of guilt that he'd never managed to give this to him before. At the same time, the thought that he truly should not be enjoying this so much, the way it took _effort_ to strike him hard enough to turn the skin red, that he could see bruises forming because of _his_ hand and he _liked_ it, made something strange and eager flare inside of him. Carefully, he turned the crop in his hand, then let the next strike fly at the top of one parted thigh.

Maedhros cried out, and buried his face in his forearms, trying to smother the sounds.

"Let me hear you."

"....But..."

Fingon struck again, then on the other thigh, turning both of them red in blotches. "If I want every soldier in Hithlum to hear you cry for me, _they'll hear_."

"Yes," Maedhros said, and his voice was ragged. On the next stroke, he stiffened, and spilled without a touch onto the throne, a dry sob heaving his chest.

Fingon paused, staring, wide-eyed at the spectacle in front of him. In all their years together, they had made love thousands of times, in every position and place Fingon could think of, but he wasn't certain he'd _ever_ seen anything quite so arousing as Maedhros coming without a touch to his cock, bent over his throne, his back and thighs reddened with stripes from Fingon's hand.

"Hold still," he whispered. "I want to look at you."

Maedhros's lips parted on a low, shaking moan, and he complied, his hair falling about his face.

Then Fingon kicked off his own breeches, tossed the crop onto the ground, and crossed the stride between them in a heartbeat. "That's enough looking," he muttered, and reached around to the throne, dragging his fingers through the mess Maedhros had made. "Will this be slick enough for you?"

 _I want_ , thrummed Maedhros's mind, something else he wanted to ask for, something he suddenly _craved_ , but could not bring himself to say.

But they were joined, as one, and Fingon was listening.

He kissed Maedhros's neck, and slid his fingers into his hole, making him squirm, over-sensitive after his release but unwilling to pull away. "Shh," he breathed. "All you need to do is let me take my pleasure. My...loyal plaything."

There was a sudden, violent surge of emotion from Maedhros beneath him, and for a moment, Fingon thought he would have to stop, that he had gone too far, that what Maedhros wanted he didn't _actually want_ once it was put into practice.

Then Maedhros let out a low whine, and shoved back mindlessly. " _Yes_ ," he moaned, turning his head to stare up at Fingon, his pupils blown with need. He looked dreadfully debauched, as if Fingon had already had him again and again.

Fingon slicked him with his own release, then let his hand wander, pinching and twisting a nipple. "Perhaps I should forbid you the wearing of red," he mused, and rubbed his cock against the cleft of Maedhros's ass, letting him feel it before he pressed inside. "Send you around only in my colors from now on."

"If my King wishes..."

"Perhaps I should paint your face with my seed before sending you out of here, too."

Maedhros tensed, and Fingon knew without looking that he was hardening again. He drew a hand down Maedhros's back, over the abused flesh, then up to grip his hair tight at the base, pulling so tightly it must be painful. "Don't worry. You'll get what you need first. Because it's what I want to give you."

A nod, weak, and the fall of copper locks. Fingon rested a hand on Maedhros's hip, and thrust in, hearing Maedhros let out a strangled gasp as he was filled. "You've been very good," Fingon murmured, brushing Maedhros's hair to one side as he ground his hips forward, pressing kisses to the side of that freckled neck. "So I think...you are allowed to enjoy this, today."

One knot of tension, released. Maedhros's toes still curled against the floor as he was swaying, rocked by Fingon's rough thrusts. "Thank you, my King."

"If your King commands, you _must_ obey, mustn't you?"

Maedhros's head whipped around, his gaze meeting Fingon's, wide-eyed. A war crossed briefly over his face, fought behind his eyes. Then, with a great, shuddering exhale, he nodded, and slumped forward. His motion changed, turning more sinuous, more erotic, arching his back, lifting his hips, bending his neck, spreading his thighs. Fingon felt the change, and knew its source, intrinsically, marriage bond or no. _You learned this for survival,_ he knew, and shoved his cock in deeper, hearing Maedhros let out throaty moans as he took it. _How much it must have pained you, to wish to show me, to wish to offer this skill to me, yet fear my disgust._

"It's good," he whispered, his hand stroking now in that fall of red, his touches turning gentle even as his rhythm increased. "It's good that you know how to perform for me like this. It's my right, as your King, isn't it?"

"That's--that's it." Maedhros's voice was rough, almost drunk, breaking and hitching every time Fingon's cock worked him open. "It's--for _you_."

Fingon pressed a kiss to the top of his spine, nodding in understanding. "All mine. You're _mine_ to take, _my_ plaything. It's _my_ marks you wear."

He saw tears on Maedhros's cheeks, and reached around, feeling his cock achingly hard again. Maedhros almost pulled away, but Fingon gripped him hard, his rhythm never faltering as he wrapped a hand around that hard cock and stroked. "You will not avoid your pleasure," he ordered, and Maedhros complied immediately, rocking back onto his cock, letting Fingon fondle him. "You mustn't deny your King."

Maedhros nodded, half-delirious from the way his eyes were rolling back into his head, little eager noises coming from his lips with every thrust into his willing body. He looked like he wanted to say something else, but couldn't bring himself to--even like this, so stubborn, so determined to endure.

Fine. Fingon was in a mood, and his cock was as hard as it had ever been. Besides, all of his guesses had been right so far. "When I'm done--taking my pleasure," he breathed, and sped up his thrusts, knowing he was close to completion, nearly losing the train of his words in his rush to finish, "I'll have you--sit on my lap on this throne--and you can just--serve me--"

"Until you tire of me," Maedhros agreed, sounding wrung out, still moving in sinful undulations, squeezing down on him in a way that made Fingon curse and see stars.

"Never--going to happen," he grunted, and let fly a vicious slap to Maedhros's ass, leaving a stinging handprint that hurt to deal out, and made Maedhros buck eagerly beneath him. "So you'll just--have to serve me-- _forever_ \--"

" _Yes_ ," Maedhros moaned, and tightened up around him so much Fingon cursed, spilling before he was quite ready. He rode it out, fucking his seed as deep into Maedhros as he could, hearing both of them letting out bestial, hungry sounds, until the flames of ardor cooled, and they finally came to stillness.

"...Finno."

"Mm?" Maedhros's voice sounded as if it were coming from very far away.

Then there was a gentle sigh, and a sense of movement. The world tilted, and he slowly blinked, disoriented upon finding himself on the throne again, sitting astride Maedhros's lap, curled against his chest. "...Did I fall asleep?"

Maedhros brushed a kiss to his lips, his eyes dancing. "You did."

Fingon let his eyes close again, and nestled against Maedhros's shoulder. "Mm. All right. Wait. Weren't your wrists bound?"

"...It's not _really_ difficult to pull a binding off my wrists when I've only got the one hand, beloved. It just feels good at the time."

"...Oh. Right."

There was a long pause, where Fingon just listened to the sound of Maedhros's breathing, even and slow against his ear. Finally, he ventured, "Was that close?"

Maedhros inhaled, his hand tensing slightly on Fingon's back. He always recovered so quickly after lovemaking, could even ride to battle directly, whereas Fingon always felt as if someone had increased the weight of his body a hundredfold. "It was perfect."

"I don't know if...when I might do it again."

"I don't know that I'll ever need you to."

"Really?"

Maedhros's mouth twitched. "I may want you to," he admitted. "But now I have your voice to call on in my memory, when such dark turns take me. That is a rare gift you've given me."

"Not _so_ much of a gift," Fingon informed him, and grinned. "I enjoyed it, too." And for a moment, he hadn't thought of his father, or the crown, despite the title on Maedhros's lips.

"A gift may be shared, may it not?"

"Only if the giver is a greedy sort. Ah. I take your point. I am greedy."

"As am I."

"But as long as there are many gifts, does it matter?"

Maedhros smiled, and brushed an errant braid back from his face with the stump of his right arm. "The Great Battle of Gifts continues, then?"

Fingon nodded, and turned his face to press a kiss to the red-lined flesh that had so recently been bound. "And I will win."

"If I _let_ you."

"This isn't a footrace! That was one time!"

"One time that you know of, aye."

"You are _very_ forward in how you speak to your King!"

"Perhaps my King would prefer me another way?"

"...He would not."

"I thought as much."


End file.
